Dreamland
by Illisandria Carthain
Summary: By a route obscure and lonely,/Haunted by ill angels only,/Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,/On a black throne reigns upright,/I have reached these lands but newly/From an ultimate dim Thule-/From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,/Out of SPACE- out of TIME.


**(A/N: This story is dedicated to my dearest friend and confidante: Raxi. Here, in my hands, I hold your heart. You don't need that, right? Right.)**

_By a route obscure and lonely,  
__Haunted by ill angels only,  
__Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,  
__On a black throne reigns upright,  
__I have reached these lands but newly  
__From an ultimate dim Thule-  
__From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,  
__Out of SPACE- out of TIME.__  
_

_Bottomless vales and boundless floods,  
__And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,  
__With forms that no man can discover  
__For the tears that drip all over;  
__Mountains toppling evermore  
__Into seas without a shore;  
__Seas that restlessly aspire,  
__Surging, unto skies of fire;  
__Lakes that endlessly outspread  
__Their lone waters- lone and dead,-  
__Their still waters- still and chilly  
__With the snows of the lolling lily.__  
_

Sweat, salty-sweet and none-too-foreign, adorns his upper-lip as he is jolted awake by Sherlock's sudden presence in his room. The consulting detective's face is impassive to all but his closest of confidantes, who can read the worry pulling at the corners of his lips and the edges of his eyes. Silence passes the time, broken only by the repetitious ticking of the clock which magnifies its weight and multiplies its meaning.

The doctor takes quick note of how, though no direct nor lingering physical contact is being made, Sherlock's middle finger methodically brushes his thigh through his pyjama bottoms in a soothing manner. Sherlock holds his gaze quietly, eyebrows pinched in a way that would seem stern to the general populace. It was his way of comforting John. Unconventional, but his nonetheless.

"What—" barely escapes John's cracked throat before Sherlock dives in, knowing what he is going to ask before he asks it.

"You were making a lot of noise," blunt and to the point. Sherlock is not a man of poetry; when he says something it is said directly, without the frivolous language that makes poems so precious to the commonwealth. "It was a nightmare." Not a question, no. He already knows. He sees him in this state every night; he needn't ask that.

John's shakes his head and his lips purse to form the 'm' sound when Sherlock jumps in again, "a memory then? One particularly traumatising...Afghanistan perhaps? No. You're long over that."

John gets up and heads to the kitchen to make himself a midnight cuppa. He doesn't normally do this, but a Hot Toddy sounds good right now. With automaton precision, he coats the bottom of his tea cup with honey and sets the kettle on to boil.

Sherlock paces in the background, long legs carrying him from one furniture piece to the next as he recollects all the memories that would result in John's reaction being that severe. "The Study in Pink...wouldn't be that because that was tame in comparison to other cases we've done together. Perhaps the Baskerville case? No...not that..." In the kitchen, the kettles whistles.

Brandy already in his cup along with a fresh lemon slice devoid of seeds, John pours the scalding water over his bag of Assam and lets it steep. His fingers stray for the cabinet to the left of the stove, and he retrieves a small medicinal bottle off of the shelf.

Sherlock perches on the recliner, knees tucked in to his chest, with his fingers bunched together and pressing against his lips. "It could very well be Moriarty. In fact, I'm positive that it is Moriarty. Correct?"

John swallows his steaming Hot Toddy in a single go along with the pill he had pulled from the cabinet. With a sad smile he puts the bottle back, label facing out so the prescription is visible.

**Watson, John H.  
****Clozapril 200mg  
****Twice daily****  
**

"Reichenbach Falls," he says as he walks right through the apparition.

_By the lakes that thus outspread  
__Their lone waters, lone and dead,-  
__Their sad waters, sad and chilly  
__With the snows of the lolling lily,-  
__By the mountains- near the river  
__Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-  
__By the grey woods,- by the swamp  
__Where the toad and the newt encamp-  
__By the dismal tarns and pools  
__Where dwell the Ghouls,-  
__By each spot the most unholy-  
__In each nook most melancholy-  
__There the traveller meets aghast  
__Sheeted Memories of the Past-  
__Shrouded forms that start and sigh  
__As they pass the wanderer by-  
__White-robed forms of friends long given,  
__In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.__  
_

_For the heart whose woes are legion  
__'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-  
__For the spirit that walks in shadow  
__'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!  
__But the traveller, travelling through it,  
__May not- dare not openly view it!  
__Never its mysteries are exposed  
__To the weak human eye unclosed;  
__So wills its King, who hath forbid  
__The uplifting of the fringed lid;  
__And thus the sad Soul that here passes  
__Beholds it but through darkened glasses.__  
_

_By a route obscure and lonely,  
__Haunted by ill angels only,  
__Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,  
__On a black throne reigns upright,  
__I have wandered home but newly  
__From this ultimate dim Thule.  
__**—Edgar Allan Poe**__  
_


End file.
